The Dictionary Game
by Dreamality
Summary: This is a collection of vignettes. Each chapter is based on a different word, chosen randomly from a dictionary. Chapter Four is "hawthorn." Summary: Samwise, Bag End’s faithful gardener, gets stuck in a hawthorn bush. Young Master Frodo helps him out o
1. Possessive

**The Dictionary Game**

**Author's Note/Introduction: **Hello, and welcome to the wacky world that is my brain. You see, this is a game I play when I have writer's block. I take a dictionary and rifle through the pages without looking, then stop and point at one random word. Whatever word I choose, I write a short story based on that story. Every chapter I add will be its own individual story, totally unrelated to the others. Updates will be sporadic and usually rather short, but you never know, one of these ficlets may inspire me towards a longer story. It's just something fun to do while I wait for other inspiration to come along and I thought other people might enjoy it. So there you go, that's what this strange little story is all about! **Please Note:** There will be **no slash** whatsoever in this story (unless otherwise noted), but there will be deep friendships. 

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**Chapter One: Possessive**

Genre: Drama

Summary: Frodo is possessive. Sam is worried. 

**Possessive: 1. (adj) **If someone is possessive, the person wants to keep someone or something for him/herself and does not want to share it.

**2. (noun)** The form of a noun or pronoun that shows that something belongs to the one being referred to.

**For the purposes of this fic, I will be using the first definition. Definitions come from the Scholastic Children's Dictionary.**

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all related characters, settings, events, etc. belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. The Scholastic Children's Dictionary, from which all words and definitions will be taken, belongs to Scholastic. I make no money from this venture.  
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The land was rocky and bleak, everything being covered in filth and blanketed with evil. The whole land had an entirely unfriendly appearance. Every particle of dust, every rock from pebble to boulder, and every breath of hot air blown about the land seemed to scream at the two hobbits to leave now and never return. Indeed if they had their choice that is exactly what they would do, but they were bound to this Quest by a promise made long ago in a land so far away that each wondered if perhaps it had been an imaginary place.

Onward the hobbits trudged, one behind the other. They were quite nearly undistinguishable from the rocks they were surrounded by, due to the grey cloaks they wore and the coating of dust they wore from head to foot. The only difference was that the two hobbits were moving, while the rocks sat still and silent. Their movement was slow and they were hindered by exhaustion and despair. The path they took was long and dangerous, from the mountainsides they scaled to the sudden chasms that would appear underfoot, as well as the ever-present threat of being discovered by the Enemy.

The trailing hobbit was Samwise Gamgee, loyal and faithful servant to Frodo Baggins, the second hobbit who was leading them blindly towards the fiery mountain in the distance. Their guide, Gollum, had been lost days ago, or had it been weeks ago? Sam no longer kept track of the passing days, as they had no meaning. The one thing that had meaning anymore was currently on a chain around Frodo's neck.

Sam's thoughts were constantly occupied with naught but one thing. Frodo. He ignored his own aches and pains as he looked after his dear master, wanting him to be as comfortable as possible. In the beginning of their long journey, that job had been simple. Food was plentiful, water was easy to get, and they stopped for rest often. They were guided by people with experience, people who knew the way, not by a hobbit who had never been outside of Hobbiton. 

Now that Frodo and Sam were in Mordor, nearing the end of their journey, making Frodo comfortable was getting near impossible. 

Frodo's thoughts were constantly occupied with one thing. The Ring. Day by day, with each footstep, the Ring grew heavier and heavier and Sam's worry increased. Sam would watch Frodo as they walked or while they rested. His hands would twitch, his fingers would curl around an invisible object, and his eyes would close in pain until he gave in and reached for the Ring, just holding it loosely in his grasp until Sam would gently pull his hand away. Frodo never seemed to notice Sam; too lost was he in a world Sam could never reach.

Sam realized Frodo's lead had increased whilst he was lost in his thoughts. He quickened his pace until he came up even beside Frodo. The dark-haired hobbit made no acknowledgement that he knew Sam was there beside him. His hand was clutching the Ring, clawing at his chest and pulling on the chain. Frodo's normally vibrant blue eyes had clouded over with desire, making them appear dull and grey.

"Mister Frodo, maybe we should stop to rest," Sam suggested hesitantly. Frodo did not respond but continued to trudge in the direction of Mount Doom. Sam put his hand out, reaching toward the wrist of the hand that held the Ring.

With a sudden burst of strength Sam did not think Frodo possessed, the older hobbit smacked Sam's hand away, lunging at him suddenly. Frodo snarled and pushed the unprepared Sam to the ground, grabbing his hand and pinning it above his head.

"Mister Frodo!" Sam gasped, taken aback by this sudden display of viciousness. "Mister Frodo, it's me! It's Sam! I'm not gonna hurt you! I wasn't tryin' to take it! Please, Mister Frodo, don't you know that I just want to help you?"

The fierce, wild look in Frodo's eyes gradually faded away. Very slowly, he released his hold on Sam and rose to his feet. With his eyes shimmering with tears, he offered a hand and pulled his faithful servant to his feet, then enclosed him in a loose embrace.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Frodo whispered. "I'm so, so sorry. You must understand, it wasn't me who attacked you –it was the Ring."

"I know, Mister Frodo. I know," Sam replied, awkwardly stroking Frodo's hair in an attempt to comfort him. Frodo pulled out of his grasp, turning back towards the mountain of fire and restarting the slow, tedious pace. 

"Mister Frodo, wouldn't you like to rest for a bit? You look so tired…" Sam trailed off, waiting for Frodo to respond. The despondent hobbit cast a long look at Sam, his eyes full of sadness and regret.

"I'm always tired, Sam. It's always weighing me down." Sam knew without asking what "it" was. He looked at the Ring with loathing, wishing that it had never come to Bag End and that he could still be a simple gardener back home in the Shire. Frodo continued, "Resting won't help me, but if you want to rest, we can. I'm sorry I brought you here, Sam. I'm so sorry I brought this upon you."

"Don't be sorry, Mister Frodo. It was my choice to come along with you, and I couldn't of made any other choice. I'll go with you to the end, until we haven't anywhere else to go. Wherever you lead me, I'll follow you." Sam came forward and put his arm around Frodo, marveling at how thin and frail he felt. As they took a few stumbling steps together, Sam eyed the Ring that glinted brightly in the dark and dreary environment. Frodo caught Sam's stare, and with a snarl his hand shot up the hold the Ring.

"It's mine, Sam! You can't have it!" Frodo announced, wrenching himself away from Sam's friendly arm and moving ahead. Sam stared after him, frozen for a moment in shock. His dear friend, his kind master, Master Frodo of Bag End, was unrecognizable now. He was blinded by the powers of the Ring, his judgment impaired to the point that he no longer recognized friend from foe. Sauron's evil was eating away at Frodo little by little, and there was nothing Sam could do to help.

With a long, heavy sigh, Sam collected himself and continued walking, following a few steps behind Frodo, whose hand was still clawing at his chest, the Ring enclosed in his dirty, grimy hand.

In the distance, the mountain rumbled, spewing fire into the air. Frodo muttered something, his other hand now coming up so he could hold the Ring between both palms. Sam's heart fell to the dirty, dusty ground, where it lay amongst the jagged rocks, weeping bitterly. 

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**End**


	2. Insert

**The Dictionary Game**

**Chapter Two: Insert**

Genre: Humor

Summary: A young Pippin tries to insert a square peg into a round hole, Merry gets upset.

**Insert: 1. (verb)** To put something inside something else.

**2. (noun)** Something that is put inside something else

**For the purposes of this story, I will be using the first definition.**

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When he felt a tugging on the edge of his tunic, Merry heaved a long-suffering sigh and slammed the book he had been reading shut. His eyes rolled to the sky as he said in a monotone,

"What."

"Come play with me, Merry!" squeaked the annoying, high-pitched voice of his young cousin Pippin. Merry scowled, pushing Pippin's hand away from his tunic.

"I'm busy, Pip. Go play by yourself."

Merry felt a slight tinge of guilt when a look of immense disappointment spread across Pippin's face, but the guilt was quickly washed away when he reopened the book and immersed himself in the story. It was a book he had been gifted at his cousin Bilbo's last birthday celebration, and far from being a useless mathom, it was something he could use and enjoy. Being a romance book designed for older hobbits, Merry's parents did not approve of his reading it. To their knowledge, he had given it away, but whenever they were out of the house he pulled it out from the mess beneath his bed and drank in the words.

Currently, Merry was supposed to be watching Pippin, but his attention was devoted entirely to the book. Pippin had an assortment of toys spread about the hobbit-hole, so Merry figured he could keep himself busy until it was time for afternoon tea. Merry hated babysitting. It wasn't that he disliked Pippin, he just didn't find his company greatly enjoyable. He would rather be with friends his own age, playing on the shores of the Brandywine or fishing or, well, _anything_ but babysitting his little cousin.

Five minutes later, just when the story was really getting interesting, Merry felt another tug on his tunic. With a huff and a grumble, he shut the book and looked down into Pippin's face. 

"What is it now, Pip?"

"Wanna go outside. Play tag with me! You're it!" Pippin giggled, poking Merry's shoulder before running away. Looking over his shoulder a moment later, Pippin found that Merry had reburied his nose in the book once more and was making no move towards playing with him. Pippin pouted, dragging his feet back to the chair Merry occupied. 

"Merry!" Pippin whined. "You're _supposed_ to play with me!"

"I don't believe that was in the rules. Perhaps you should ask your father to write it into the laws," Merry replied dryly, his eyes never leaving the page. Pippin's father was the Thain of the Shire, but when there was peace in the lands he was hardly called upon to fulfill any duties. Pippin, of course, was too young to understand the details of his father's job, and though he would never admit it, Merry didn't quite understand either. 

"Maybe I will! And then he'll put you in jail for breaking the law!" Pippin declared defiantly. Merry glanced at him, raising his eyebrows with a bored expression on his face. Pippin was standing before him, his small face turned up at Merry with a rebellious expression and his hands on his hips. Merry snorted with laughter before returning to the story.

With a sigh of defeat, Pippin went to play with the toys he had brought to Merry's house. He kicked aside a music box and threw his small, cotton-stuffed bear at the wall to show Merry just how angry he was. When that produced no reaction, Pippin picked up a heavier storybook and threw it at the wall. This time Merry did look up, and he looked angry. Pippin immediately regretted his actions.

"Pippin! You know better than that!" Merry scolded in imitation of his mother. "Go pick up that book and put it away if you don't want to read it. Then you can just sit down on that chair in the corner until you want to behave like a good little hobbit."

There. Being a mother wasn't so hard; he didn't know why his mother was always complaining. With a smirk, Merry turned his attention back to the beloved book. A second later he glanced up to check Pippin's progress. The young hobbit was sitting on the floor amidst the toys, the storybook still a few yards away.

"Pippin! What did I just tell you to do?" Merry demanded.

Pippin stuck out his tongue and turned his back on Merry. His eyes narrow, Merry rose from the chair, leaving his book behind on the seat. He grabbed Pippin's arm and pulled him to his feet, dragging him towards the book.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, stop it Merry, I'm sorry! I pick it up! Leave me alone! Let go of me!" Pippin screamed as if he was being led to his death. Scoffing, Merry let go and watched Pippin walk docilely to the book, pick it up, and place it on the small table that sat in front of the sofa. He looked at Merry, expecting praise. He got a little pat on the head as Merry returned to his chair.

Crestfallen, Pippin went to sit on the floor again. He pulled over one of his favorite toys. His father had made it for him just recently. It consisted of a wooden block with different shapes cut in it and wooden pegs and corresponded with the holes. The object of the game, as Pippin's father had explained, was to match the correct peg with the correct hole. Pippin loved to play this game.

He picked up the first shape. It was a square. With intense concentration, he studied the holes cut into the block. His tongue was held between his lips and his free hand scratched his head in confusion. First, he tried the diamond-shaped hole. That didn't work. Then he tried the round hole. It looked big enough to hold the square peg. 

Upon the first attempt, the peg would not go into the hole. Pippin banged the peg on the block, trying to squeeze it in, but it wasn't working. His anger grew as the stubborn peg continued to refuse to go into its hole. 

Merry looked up when he heard Pippin banging around. He chuckled when he saw the child's dilemma. Pippin looked so irritated that Merry took pity on him and decided to show him how the game worked. 

"Hey Pip, I think I can help you here. Can I see the peg?" Merry asked, kneeling beside Pippin and holding out his hand. Pippin handed over the peg with an annoyed sigh.

"It doesn't work. Papa didn't do it right," Pippin huffed, conveniently forgetting the fact that the game had worked perfectly when his father had shown him how to do it.

"Look, Pippin, you're doing it wrong. Tell me, what kind of shape is this?" Merry asked, holding up the square.

"It's, uh, it's a…" Pippin paused, thinking hard to remember the name his father had told him. "A square!"

"Right," Merry nodded. "And what kind of shape is this?" He pointed to the round hole.

"That's a… um… a circle!" Pippin exclaimed.

"Very good. You see, Pippin, a square is not a circle, so it can't go into the circle hole. You have to put the peg into the hole that is the same shape. Let's look at the other holes. Right here we have a triangle, and this is a diamond. This one here is a… well, I forget what that one is called, but it is not a square. But look at this one! This one is a square, just like the peg!" Merry lined the square peg up with the square hole and the peg slid in easily.

"So you see, Pip, the square peg only fits in the square hole. It can't go in the circle hole because that's not how it's shaped. The circle can't go in the square hole because it's not a square. Do you understand now?" Merry asked, inserting the circle peg into its proper place.

"Uh-huh," replied the disinterested younger hobbit. During Merry's lesson he had busied himself by playing with a toy dog with wooden wheels that could be dragged via a rope "leash" tied around its neck.

"Now you try. Where would this triangle-shaped peg go?" Merry asked, holding out the triangle to Pippin. Pippin grasped the peg and looked down at the block, his tongue between his lips and his brow furrowed in deep concentration. He tried the triangle hole, but he didn't line it up correctly so it didn't work. Then he tried the diamond hole, hitting the peg against the hole repeatedly when it would not fit.

Merry rolled his eyes, then laughed as he fell back onto his rear end. He pulled Pippin onto his lap, taking the triangle from his hold. "Whaddya say we go play outside for a little bit, huh?"

"Yeah!" Pippin said excitedly, running for the door. Merry got up and followed him to the door. The two young hobbits walked outside hand-in-hand, leaving the stubborn wooden pegs laying on the floor.


	3. Gush

**The Dictionary Game**

**Chapter Three: Gush**

Genre: Humor/Parody

Summary: Elladan and Elrohir become very annoyed when Arwen incessantly gushes over Aragorn

**Gush: (verb)** When a person **gushes**, he or she is embarrassingly sentimental or emotional.

Before we begin, I would just like to thank those out there who have given me their support for this story. Thanks for reading, guys, it means a lot to me.

The normal disclaimer found in chapter one still applies.

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To think that such a simple task as accompanying Arwen from Lórien to Imladris could have turned into such a miserable experience, Elrohir mused as he gazed upward at the small patch of bright blue sky that showed between the tops of the towering trees that surrounded him. His chestnut stallion plodded along at an unusually slow pace, probably channeling Elrohir's boredom. There was a strange noise in the background, like the chattering of an annoying bird, but Elrohir was tuning that out to the best of his abilities. He turned to look at his twin brother, Elladan, who rode a horse of similar coloring beside him at the same tedious pace.

Elladan, who usually rode sitting tall and proud on his horse, was now slumped over. His head drooped, his chin propped up on his chest and his neck undoubtedly getting stiff. His grey eyes remained open but were glazed over, as Elrohir guessed his own were. Elladan had been in the same position for approximately four miles. Elrohir envied him for his ability to rest even as they were being tortured.

Suddenly, the background noise, the source of their misery, grew too loud to be ignored. "Is anyone even listening to me? I feel as though I'm speaking to a wall!"

Elrohir glanced over his shoulder at the woman who rode behind him on a white mare. It was his sister, Arwen, who had been living in Lórien with their grandparents for some time. Their father, Elrond, had sent his sons to bring her home, something they agreed to do without hesitation. They loved their sister, of course, but how were they to know she had become this evil sorceress who used her charming beauty to lull her prey into a false sense of security before boring them to their doom?

Elrohir forced his lips to stretch across his face in what he hoped came close to resembling a smile. "Of course I'm listening, dear sister. Do continue, I am ever so curious to hear more about Estel."

Arwen either chose to ignore or didn't even notice the sarcasm dripping from his voice. The chattering restarted and Elrohir turned back around to face the front, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Thinking back, Elrohir realized that Estel was probably the reason Elrond had sent for his daughter to be brought home. He must have known something was brewing between the man and the elleth and he wanted to nip it in the bud.

_Too late, Father_, Elrohir thought as Arwen continued to gush over Estel's "rugged good looks" and "woodsy, masculine scent." Elrohir thought Estel was always a bit funny looking, rather short and a bit hairy. His smell was another story entirely. Woodsy and masculine? Elrohir struggled to suppress a snort of disbelief.

Arwen had done and gotten herself married while in Lórien. Elrond would know as soon as he laid eyes upon her, but he would not acknowledge the marriage until Estel "fulfilled his destiny" or something like that. Elladan and Elrohir had eavesdropped on a few conversations, but neither twin quite knew what Estel was meant to do. Of course, their sister was only married by the Elvish standard of marriage, not in the traditional way of Men. Elrohir suspected they would not be considered married by _anyone_ until that happened.

"You know, Elrohir." Elrohir jumped when he heard his name and began to listen again. "You really should stop calling him 'Estel.' That's not his _real_ name. He's really Aragorn son of Arathorn. All these different names is just unnecessary confusion."

"I'm sorry, Arwen," Elrohir said through gritted teeth. "It is just that I have known him as Estel for many years. It is habit. But you are right. Aragorn son of Arathorn is far less confusing than Estel."

"Have you ever noticed the way the moon reflects in his eyes when he is being serious?" Arwen asked, sighing. Again, she had ignored Elrohir's sardonic tone. Her fair face, with bright eyes and rosy cheeks, had a nostalgic expression that would have made a fair few of the male Elves stand up straighter and take notice, Elrohir imagined. Particularly Haldir. The Marchwarden of Lórien had apparently taken quite an interest in his sister, Elrohir had noted when he met the Elf in the Golden Wood. Had Arwen not brazenly decided to defy their father and marry that mortal human, Elrohir _may_ have been able to persuade her to take Haldir as her partner. Elrohir scowled and vowed to give dear Estel a good wringing-out the next time he saw her. This little situation was undoubtedly going to create some tensions in the Homely House, tension that could easily have been avoided if Arwen had just married an Elf like all the other elleths did!

Arwen was speaking again, interrupting Elrohir's thoughts for the time being.

"And when the sun first comes up, he always looks towards the West, and the sun makes his hair shine like a raven's feather." Arwen sighed again, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Elrohir resisted the urge to pull out one of his warrior knives and silence his sister once and for all. But only barely.

Beside him, Elladan's horse shied away from a rustling bush, causing his rider to awake with a yelp. Elrohir stifled a laugh as Elladan collected himself, glancing about nervously as if to make sure no one had seen the tiny instant where he had lost composure.

"Are you all right, Elladan?" Arwen asked. Without waiting for an answer, she launched into an exceptionally long story about a time she and Estel –or rather, _Aragorn_ –had been riding through the forest and her horse took off. She made it seem like Aragorn had saved her life, but Elrohir and Elladan both knew their sister was very skilled with horses. They exchanged doubtful looks, something that Arwen's perceptive eyes did not miss.

"Elladan, Elrohir, is something the matter? I feel that you are not interested in what I am saying. Are you not happy for me that I have found love?" Arwen demanded, pretending to look hurt. Her brothers saw right through her act.

"Dear Arwen, you know we are ecstatic about your troth to Aragorn. But that does not mean we must speak of it constantly, day in and day out, all the way from Lórien to Imladris," Elladan explained.

"In fact, I think we have heard enough about dear Estel in these short hours that we needn't speak of him ever again from here on," Elrohir suggested.

"If I'm such a boring person, why don't you just tell me? Don't treat me like a child," Arwen pouted.

"Then don't _act_ like a child, Arwen," Elladan said, sounding almost frighteningly identical to Elrond when he delivered lectures to his children, as he seemed to do fairly regularly, despite the fact that all three of his children had come of age many hundreds of years ago.

"You speak of Aragorn as if you are a small Elfling who has just taken interest in the opposite sex," Elrohir said.

"It is not my fault I am rather excited about falling in love. Don't you remember how _you_ felt when _you_ first fell in love? Oh, wait, that's right, I had quite nearly forgotten. Neither of you have ever _been_ in love, have you?" Arwen asked, sounding rather snide or even snobby as she said it. Elladan and Elrohir looked at each other again, their eyebrows raised so high that they were in danger of disappearing into their hairlines. Simultaneously, they twisted around in their saddles and looked at Arwen incredulously.

"So, dear sister, now that you have fallen in love with this wonderful Man you are suddenly the wisest being in Middle-earth? That is certainly what you seem to be implying," Elladan said.

"Perhaps you have forgotten that Elladan and I have been on this earth far longer than you and have seen much more than you could ever hope to imagine?" Elrohir pointed out.

"I am implying no such thing, nor have I forgotten that you are both older than I. I was simply commenting on the fact that _I_ happen to be wiser in the ways of love," Arwen replied haughtily, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder. The rays of sun that had found some way to get through the thick branches of the trees made her long, thick mane of hair shine brilliantly, as though she were lighted from within. _Such great beauty, all wasted on a mortal man,_ Elrohir sighed to himself. Why couldn't she have just picked a nice Elf to settle down with, rather than that smelly Man? On top of that, he was her foster brother, for Eru's sake! All right, so she had never actually lived with Estel while he was under Elrond's care, but still, it was rather difficult for Elrohir to accept that one he had grown up considering as his brother was now married to his sister.

Elladan chuckled, sounding much like he did when a small Elfling told him a joke that really wasn't very funny, but he still wanted to be polite. He and Elrohir exchanged a look, then turned back towards Arwen again. Still laughing a little bit, Elladan said, "Oh my dear Arwen, I have no doubt that you have much you could teach us about the ways of true love. However, the way you are acting only proves my point; that you are rather immature and don't really know much about anything at all."

Arwen's jaw dropped. Her expression was one of absolute shock and astonishment. Sounding highly affronted, she gasped, "How _dare_ you!"

Elrohir laughed outright. He could not help himself; she looked so funny and her reaction was so exaggerated. Her gaze darkened and he knew he was in trouble. Arwen was usually a very sweet and gentle girl who loved nothing more than playing in the gardens. However, when her ire was raised, whoever her anger was directed towards would do well to run away. Quickly. As Elrohir was seriously considering to do at that moment.

"Elrohir," she began in a sickeningly sweet voice, as if she were speaking to a hurt, frightened animal. "I fail to see what is so funny in this situation. Care to enlighten me?"

Elrohir swallowed hard. "Well I… you see, Arwen, I was… ahem… I was laughing because a deer that just ran by made a very funny face. It really was amusing, you should have seen her, too bad she's long gone now…"

Somehow, Elrohir didn't think Arwen totally bought his story. Her eyes narrowed, and if looks could kill, Elrohir would be halfway to the Halls of Mandos by now. Desperately, he tried to think of a way to rectify his mistakes or else escape the situation, but nothing came to mind. Beside him, Elladan shifted very slightly in his saddle and shook the reins a tiny bit, attracting Elrohir's glance. He looked into Elladan's face, a mirror image of his own, and listened intently. Elladan had a plan, this he knew by the look on Elladan's face. When their eyes met, Elladan could convey to him the details without divulging anything to Arwen.

_When I say "now," spur your horse. We will run ahead, and Arwen will be left behind_.

It was a desperate plan, not very well thought out and not very efficient. However, Elrohir urgently needed some way to get away from Arwen, at least until she cooled down a little bit or else forgot his blunder entirely, as she was wont to do. Until then, galloping away as quickly as possible was a highly appealing idea.

_All right. I'm ready. Give the signal._ Elrohir nodded subtly at Elladan and tightened his reins. His horse felt the shift and immediately tensed, waiting for his master's signal.

"Elrohir, Elladan, I cannot believe how rude you are being to me. All I wanted to do was tell you about the single most important thing in my life, is that so wrong? Apparently so, since you've been ignoring me since we left Lórien! It really hurts me that you don't care about Estel –I mean, Aragorn! He is your foster brother, after all, one would think you might be happy for him, but _no_, as always you just care about yourselves. I am really disappointed, I cannot even–"

"Now, Elrohir, now!" Elladan cried, kicking his horse so that he took off down the wide dirty path. Elrohir soon followed, and his ears were filled with the sound of pounding hooves and wind rushing past his face. The cool wind bit into his face and made his eyes water, but anything was better than listening to Arwen prattle on and on about her precious boyfriend.

Very soon, however, the large, gaping hole in Elladan's otherwise brilliant plan made itself apparent. Although their stallions were highly capable war horses and noble steeds all around, Arwen's mare was bred for speed and agility. Her dainty hooves barely seemed to touch the ground as she flew towards her chestnut brethren, eating up the distance between them in the blink of an eye.

"Last one to Imladris has to tell Father I married Aragorn!" Arwen yelled as she came between her twin brothers and slowly began to inch ahead.

"Noro lim, mellon, noro lim!" Elrohir yelled in his horse's ear, as Elladan kicked his own horse harder, urging him to go faster. Neither wanted to be the one to break this unfortunate piece of news to their stern father and were now that much more eager to get ahead of Arwen.

Arwen chanced a glance over her shoulder and grinned when she saw her brothers neck-and-neck, the hooves of their mounts churning up the dirt and sending pieces of gravel flying behind them. Laughing happily, she urged her mare to run her heart out, confident that she, at least, was safe from Elrond's wrath, at least for the time being.

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**End**


	4. Hawthorn

**Chapter Four: Hawthorn**

**Genre: **Humor/General****

**Summary:** Pre-Fellowship. Samwise, Bag End's faithful gardener, gets stuck in a hawthorn bush. Young Master Frodo helps him out of his prickly predicament.

**Hawthorn: (noun) A shrub or tree of the rose family that has thorns, white or pink blossoms, and small, colorful fruits.**

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Springtime was a probably the most wonderful time of year in the Shire. The flowers were all in bloom and their sweet scents wafted through the hobbit holes on fresh breezes. Everything was bright, colorful and beautiful, from the vibrant green grasses to the bright flowers that grew with wild abandon to the yellow ribbons that decorated the curly hair of the hobbit lasses. Every day, almost as soon as the sun was up (though never before breakfast time, of course) the fields were full of cheery young hobbits playing silly games or just basking in the golden sunlight, the soft grass tickling their bare feet.

Although the Shire was full of beauty in spring, one place in particular simply teemed with it: Bag End, the hobbit hole of Bilbo Baggins. Despite what some might say about the eccentric old hobbit, no one could deny that his gardens were superb. Undoubtedly they were tended by a gardener who had a passion for his craft, who poured his heart and soul into his work to create such a beautiful haven.

"I _hate_ spring!"

Samwise Gamgee was the gardener of Bag End, or one of them at least. He was currently hoeing the small herb garden, trying to hack away the weeds that were threatening to choke his precious herbs until they shriveled and died. Angrily he dug at them with the hoe, nearly taking a chunk out of his rosemary bush. Normally his Gaffer would be there to help, but the old Gaffer had gone into town for the day to buy some supplies. Sam was alone in the garden, alone with the weeds and the hot sun and the biting bugs. With a growl, he sank his hoe into the earth again, tearing at the infernal weeds with a vengeance.

For Sam, springtime was not a time for relaxation and hours playing in the cheery sun. For Sam, springtime was a time for extra work, long days toiling under the relentless heat of the sun, and a sore back from bending over all day picking stupid weeds out of the ground. While other hobbit lads and lasses were trying to decide whether the large, fluffy cloud above them looked more like a fish or a bird, Sam was hoping the cloud was full of rain so that his freshly planted geraniums wouldn't have to be watered by hand. It wasn't that he didn't _like_ gardening. On the contrary, he loved it. He just wished sometimes that he could have time to play with his friends and enjoy the beauty of spring, instead of spending all day toiling in the garden and learning to hate things like caterpillars or ladybugs that threaten to eat his carefully tended flowers and plants.

"And stay away, you nasty things!" he said when he dumped a wheelbarrow full of weeds and dead branches into the mulch pile. He paused with his elbow leaning on the handle of the wheelbarrow, pulling a dirty, stained, wrinkled handkerchief out of his pocket. The handkerchief did little for his sweat-drenched forehead; it was already so wet with past sweat that it could barely soak up anything new. With a sigh, he heaved the wheelbarrow into its proper position and headed back into the garden.

"That durn hawthorn bush'll need pruning as well," he muttered to himself, passing a large shrub decorated with small pink and white blossoms. A few small fruits peeked at him from beneath lush, vibrantly green leaves, only serving to remind him of his growling stomach. He groaned as he reached for his pruning shears, wishing he could just take _one_ day, just _one_ little day off.

From somewhere behind him, Sam heard a door open. There were light footsteps coming down the path, and a small voice shouted, "I'm going out to play in the garden, Uncle Bilbo!"

Sam scowled and sent a dirty glare toward the main part of Bag End. Of course Master Frodo was at leisure, when was he ever not? He could actually enjoy the garden for its beauty, not for its hard work. Sam clipped away haphazardly with the shears, taking off a few bright flowers.

"I think the flowers are supposed to stay on," a voice said, accompanied by a high-pitched child's giggle.

"Yeah, well, perhaps I thought they'd look better on the ground," Sam said, not looking away from the bush. His face was red, partly from the midday heat, but also from embarrassment that young Frodo had caught him making blunders in the beautiful garden.

"Uncle Bilbo likes flowers in vases in the house, but he's never put them on the floor," Frodo said thoughtfully. "Maybe I will put some on the floor of the hallway." He came forward, standing right beside Sam, and reached out to pick a particularly large, particularly bright pink flower.

"Be careful," Sam warned, and the hand withdrew quickly . "There's thorns in there'll make your fingers bleed till next Thursday."

"Will you cut me a flower, then?" Frodo requested.

"Take one off the floor. The rest should stay on the bush. They look best that way," Sam said shortly, wishing Frodo would go away and leave him to his work. Frodo bent down and picked up the three white flowers that Sam had accidentally chopped off in his anger. He examined them closely, then, apparently satisfied, skipped away, presumably to litter the floor of Bag End with them.

Sam continued pruning until the bush was at a satisfying size and shape. Then he kneeled down to gather the chopped off leaves and branches, groaning at the ache he felt in his lower back. Surely it was time for tea, wasn't it? Alas, no, Sam saw that the sun was still too low in the sky for it to be tea time, or even lunchtime yet. It felt so much later than that…

With a great sigh, Sam rose again, his arms full of the prickly, thorny branches. He tossed them into the wheelbarrow, eyeing the angry red scratches he had accumulated with distaste. _All in the name of gardening_, he thought bitterly. The wheelbarrow was heavy now, full of branches as well as other weeds he had stopped to pick along the way. He wielded it a little unsteadily and tried to compensate for the uneven weight by leaning to his left, towards the hawthorn bush. The front wheel turned slowly and squeaked shrilly, as if it needed oiling. _Yet another task to add to the list_, Sam thought with another sigh, cringing at the high-pitched squealing of the wheel. The muscles in his arms tensed under the short sleeves of his light cotton tunic and the wheelbarrow moved slowly forward.

Suddenly, a rock in the ground knocked the wheel off-balance and making it lean hard right. Sam leaned farther left, hoping it wouldn't spill over. He didn't want to have to gather all those thorny branches again and get even more scratched up.

But he had leaned too far, Sam realized too late. The wheelbarrow had been leaning right when it hit the rock, but Sam's attempt to save it caused it to quickly tip in the other direction. Sam, still holding resolutely to the handles, toppled over with it.

Directly into the freshly pruned, brightly decorated, and very thorny hawthorn bush.

Sam let out a yell that reverberated over all of Bag End. Bilbo, sitting at his desk in his study, glanced up sharply, muttered to himself, and bent over his book again, his quill scratching away at the cream white paper. Frodo, who had been arranging his three white flowers outside the door to Bilbo's study, looked up too, frowning in concern. He recognized the yell as belonging to the gardener Sam. He hoped Sam wasn't hurt. Feeling scared, Frodo hurried out of the house and down the garden path, looking right and left for any sign of Sam.

"Sam! Sam! Where are you, Sam? Don't be afraid, I'm here to help!" Frodo yelled, hoping against hope that he wasn't too late to save the poor gardener from some horrific fate.

"You stupid bush, let me go! I'm sorry for pruning you, all right, but you needed it! You bloody bush, let me out of here!" came Sam's strangled cries from the direction of Bilbo's large hawthorn bush. Frodo dashed off and found Sam struggling in the midst of the bright green leaves, white and pink flowers, and small bright fruits. The wheelbarrow was tipped over, its contents mingling with the dirt path, the bush, and Sam's kicking legs.

"Sam, are you all right? Stay still, I'll help pull you out!" Frodo said, kneeling beside the bush.

"Mister Frodo, is that you? Help me! Get me out of here!" Sam bellowed, his face hidden beneath branches. His legs began kicking again and his arms thrashed about wildly, looking for something to hold onto so he could pull himself out of his botanical prison.

"Just stay still for a second, Sam, I'll get the shears! I can cut you out of here!" Frodo said, looking frantically around for Sam's pruning shears.

"They're in the toolbox, beside the wheelbarrow. Hurry, Mister Frodo, these thorns really hurt!" Sam yelled.

Frodo seized the large wooden box and pulled it towards him. The shears were, luckily, right on top. Otherwise it would have taken him all day to look through the endless contents of the box and locate them. After warning Sam to stay very still, Frodo took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began cutting away. Branches, flowers, leaves, and fruit fell away from him with each hack of the shears. Soon, Sam's lower body appeared, follow by his torso and arms. After a bit of wriggling and maneuvering, Sam managed to expose his face to daylight again. He took a great gulp of air, glad he was free. Frodo gasped when he saw the scratches that covered Sam all over. Some of them were bleeding, most were just very red and painful-looking.

Sam clasped Frodo's outstretched hand and allowed himself to be pulled up by the younger hobbit. Besides sweat and dirt, Sam was also covered with leaves, flower petals, squished fruit, and especially scratches thanks to the sharp thorns that covered the stems of the flowers. He scowled and tried to brush himself off a little, which only aggravated the painful scratches and turned his scowl into a wince.

"Are you all right, Sam?" Frodo asked worriedly, shifting from foot to foot. Sam looked up, glaring angrily.

"Does it _look_ like I'm all right? Them folks are right, you Bagginses sure are queer folk. Standin' there askin' if I'm all right when I'm standin' here bleedin' all over the place…" Sam continued to mutter to himself while he inspected one of his arms, trying to stem the flow of blood from a particularly painful scar.

"I bet Uncle Bilbo will know what to do! Come with me, Sam, he'll help you!" Frodo insisted, pulling on Sam's arm.

"Let go, Mister Frodo, that hurts!" Sam cried out, and Frodo immediately let go, his eyes wide and fearful.

"I'm so sorry, Sam, I wasn't thinking!" Frodo apologized.

"Obviously," Sam snorted. Frodo continued to watch him while Sam pulled his dirty handkerchief out of his pocket and applied pressure to the bleeding scratch. The kerchief looked as though it might have once been clean and white, but it was now a yellowish color due to the sweat and streaked with dirt and now, blood.

"You can use mine," Frodo said quietly, pulling his own clean kerchief out of his pocket and offering it to Sam. The gardener glanced up and hesitantly accepted it.

"Thanks," he grunted, wiping up more blood.

Frodo fell silent, much to Sam's pleasure. He was able to clean himself up in peace, although having those large blue eyes silently watching him was more than a little disconcerting. Finally he looked up, frowning at Frodo.

"Don't you have somewheres you need to be gettin'?" he asked pointedly. Frodo shook his head. Sam sighed and wiped up the last few drops of blood that remained on his dark brown skin. He handed the kerchief back to Frodo, who held it between his thumb and pointer finger by the corner and looked afraid to touch it.

Sam turned to look at the hawthorn bush and groaned inwardly. The once beautifully pruned hawthorn bush looked as though it had been attacked by some sort of evil bush-eating monster. Those branches that hadn't been cut off by Frodo's hapless hacking were bent and broken from Sam falling through them. The battered flowers had lost many of their petals and the fruit littered the ground, some squashed and most not even ripe yet. Now they would never get the chance to age into maturity and were to be nothing more than bird food.

"Too bad about the bush. It was one of Bilbo's favorites," Frodo said, shrugging indifferently. To him it was just a bush, nothing to fret over. For Sam it meant failure. His Gaffer would be sorely disappointed in him, that was for sure.

Frodo bent over and picked up one of the undamaged fruits. He peeled away the outer part and bit into the sweet juicy inside. Grinning, he offered the other half to Sam.

"Hungry?" he asked. Sam shook his head, but Frodo shoved the little fruit right under his nose. His stomach growled loudly, making Frodo giggle. "Oh, go on, Sam. Just try it."

His eyes rolled heavenward, Sam took the fruit and put it in his mouth, chewing it quickly only to get Frodo to close his mouth and leave him alone. To his surprise, the fruit tasted good and provided his dry mouth with desperately craved-for moisture. The sweet aftertaste made him want more. This time when Frodo shoved a peeled fruit under his nose, he took it gladly and popped it into his mouth. Frodo crouched on the ground and began gathering fallen fruit, peeling them one by one and setting them aside. Sam helped himself to one or two (or three) before kneeling beside the younger hobbit to help him gather the fruit.

"Aren't they good, Sam?" Frodo asked, grinning at the gardener. Sam grunted in reply, unwilling to admit that Frodo was right but not about to refute the statement. He plucked a particularly large one off a branch that hung right in front of his face, peeled it with nimble fingers, and ate it hungrily.

"I reckon that's enough, Mister Frodo. I've got to be gettin' back to work, and you should run off and play with your friends afore it gets too late and they all go inside for lunch and tea," Sam suggested after they had both eaten their share of fruit.

Frodo's eyes suddenly seemed sad when he looked at Sam. "I haven't got so many friends to play with, Sam. They all say I'm a strange Baggins and that I ought to stay in my hobbit-hole with Uncle Bilbo."

"Nonsense, Mister Frodo, you must have _some_ friends," Sam argued.

"Well, my cousins, Merry and Pippin, don't think I'm so strange, but they live far away. Most of the hobbits in these parts think Bilbo and I are very strange and they don't want to be around us," Frodo answered. "That's why I like to watch you work, Sam. You don't tell me to go away like they do."

Sam suddenly felt rather ashamed of himself for growing annoyed so easily around Frodo. He should have guessed that the boy stayed around the house so much because he knew what folk said about the Baggins family. Rich he may be, but money didn't change the fact that Bilbo was a strange character. Always telling crazy stories about dragons and trolls and such, no wonder people tried to stay away. But Sam knew that Bilbo was really a kind old man, and Frodo really wasn't that bad.

"You can watch me garden any time you like, Mister Frodo. If you'd like, I can teach you how to do a few things so you can keep Bag End looking pretty even when me or my Gaffer have to go away," Sam said. Frodo's eyes lighted up at the suggestion.

"Do you mean it, Sam?" he asked hopefully.

Sam smiled kindly and reached out to ruffle the curly brown hair that adorned Frodo's head. "I most certainly do."

The two hobbits shared friendly smiles, saying nothing for the time being. Suddenly their moment was interrupted by a shout.

"Samwise Gamgee!" came an angry voice. "I leave you alone for one day and this is what I find? What have you done to the poor hawthorn bush?"

Sam turned around quickly to find the Gaffer standing in the pathway, his hands on his hips and his eyes blazing. Sam's face immediately turned a bright red and he opened his mouth, prepared to apologize, but Frodo beat him to it.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Gamgee, but this is all my fault. You see, I was pestering Sam more than I should have been, and I tried to take the wheelbarrow away from him. It was too heavy for me, and I fell into the hawthorn bush. Sam had to cut away the branches to get me out," Frodo explained quickly, glancing for an instant at Sam with amused eyes before looking at the older hobbit with a look of total seriousness. Sam gaped at him in amazement as he delivered the lie perfectly.

The older Gamgee faltered and his gaze softened. He knew better than to chastise the favored nephew of his employer, so instead he smiled kindly at the young child. "Well then, that's different. Maybe you should go inside now and leave the gardening to us Gamgees."

"Yes, Mr. Gamgee. I'm terribly sorry," Frodo said. He turned around, flashed a mischievous grin at Sam, before scampering down the path towards the front door of Bag End. As his Gaffer gathered the discarded fruit peels and piled them into the wheelbarrow, muttering something under his breath, Sam shook with silent laughter. Shaking his head, he lifted the pruning shears and began to try to salvage the hawthorn's appearance, making a mental note to express his gratitude to Frodo for helping him escape a lecture.

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**End**


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